"I've heard, Bulldog, that you fancied yourself a superior sort."
"Not at all, Sergeant; you have my entire sympathy."
The Sergeant sniffed. "If they give you three years at Stony Mountain perhaps you'll drop some of that side."
Carney sat down on the side of the bed, took a cigarette case from his pocket and asked, "Do you allow smoking here? It won't fume up your curtains, will it?"
"It's against the regulations, but you smoke if you want to."
Carney's supper was brought in and when he had eaten it Sergeant Black went into the cell, saying: "You're a pretty slippery customer, Bulldog—I ought to put the bangles on you for the night." Rather irrelevantly, and with a quizzical smile, Carney asked, "Have you read 'Les Miserables,' Sergeant?"
"I ain't read a paper in a month—I've been too busy."
"It isn't a paper, it's a story."
"I ain't got no time for readin' magazines either."
"This is a story that was written long ago by a Frenchman," Carney persisted.